When We Said Goodbye
by pemberlee
Summary: Secrets and sadness hang over the Chateau de Chagny. Christine and Raoul’s young daughter watches her parents struggle with old ghosts and old sorrows. My first phic, please R&R! Includes a mysterious disappearance and the return of a certain Phantom. EC
1. At the Château de Chagny

**When We Said Goodbye**

**Note**: The first time I tried to upload this I messed up, but I finally figured out how to get the first chapter up. This based on ALW's Phantom since in the book Christine and Raoul disappear in the end. I just want to say up front that I'm not going to have Christine's daughter turn out to be Erik's or anything like that, since they never had sex in the musical or book or movie, so Lynette is Christine and Raoul's daughter. She is eight years old when she begins this story, making Christine 25, Raoul in his early thirties and Erik in his late forties.

**Chapter 1: At Le Château de Chagny**

My mother was very beautiful. She was small and slender with pale skin, big brown eyes, and dark curly hair. People said I looked like a miniature of her and I was glad to think that when I grew up I would be as lovely as she was. One day I told her this and she grew very grave.

"Beauty is not in the face, my dear," she said. "A pretty face can hide a tortured soul, just as an ugly one can hide an angel."

"Angels aren't ugly. They have fluffy wings and golden crowns," I said.

She sighed, "I didn't mean real angels. I meant angels here on earth. The people in our lives who change us and make us want to be better, those people are angels."

"You're an angel, Maman," I said.

"I might have been one a long time ago, but I was not brave enough," she said sadly. "You must always be brave, Lynette."

"I was brave last week when I had to have my tooth pulled," I reminded her.

She smiled. "Yes, you were very brave. You are very much your father's child."

My father was the Vicomte de Chagny and I loved him better than anyone else in the world, except Maman, of course. He was as handsome as my mother was beautiful and I decided I wanted to marry someone just like him when I grew up.

The other person who lived with us in our château, besides the servants, was my grandmother, my father's mother. I tried very hard to love Grandmère the way I loved Maman and Papa, but I could not. She was a tall, thin woman, with silver hair and a pinched mouth. She always fussed about dirt and bugs and she called me "the girl," as in: "The girl has made a mess in my study" or, "Can no one get the girl to brush her hair?" or, "Christine, I wish you wouldn't let the girl slide down the banister."

When I was eight, my cousins, the sons of my father's sister, came to visit for a month and Grandmère made me promise to be good to them.

"You must learn what it means to be a hostess worthy of the Chagny," she said.

There were two of them, Henri and Claude, twin boys about my own age. One of them was tall and fair and the other short and dark, which did not fit my ideas about twins at all.

After we had been left alone in the nursery, Henri, the taller of the two, said, "I heard that your mother was an opera singer."

"Yes, she was," I said. "She was a soprano at the Opera Populaire."

"Our father said it was a disgrace for your father to marry her," said Claude.

"Then your father is very rude," I retorted.

"It was a great scandal," said Claude. "Our father says your mother was not fit to marry a Chagny."

"She is very pretty, though," added Henri. I decided I liked him.

"But she's common," said Claude.

"I would rather have a pretty, common wife than an ugly noble one," said Henri.

"Not me," said Claude. "It would be shameful.'

"Don't say that!" I shouted.

"You can't make me!" he shouted back. "Your mother's a commoner and a disgrace, so there!"

He stuck out his tongue and I slammed my fist into his face. My knuckles hit bone and Claude went flying. When he stood up, a torrent of blood gushed from his nose onto his frilly white collar.

"You…you hit me!" he said, his voice more surprised than pained.

Henri clapped me on the shoulders and congratulated me, "You have a fine right hook for a girl."

Claude had noticed the blood streaming down his face and he started to squeal. "I'm dying! I'm dying!" he shrieked.

"Stop sniveling," ordered Henri sternly.

"What's all this?" said Grandmère coming into the nursery. "How am I to write my letters with such goings on?" Then she noticed Claude's nose and cried, "Good heavens! What happened to you, child?"

"Lynette hit me," he sobbed.

"Is this true?" Grandmère asked me.

"Yes," I said.

"I'm ashamed of you. You must apologize to your cousin at once."

"But I'm not sorry," I said recklessly. "He deserved worse for what he said."

"It was an affair of honor, Grandmère," said Henri.

"I don't care," said Grandmère dismissively. "Whatever the provocation, the girl knows better and her misbehavior must be dealt with."

"Undoubtedly," said a deep voice at the door. "If you don't mind, Mother, I would like to handle this."

It was Papa. He took my hand and led me into the library. He pulled out a chair for me, went to the other side of his desk, and sat down, his face serious. The silence made me nervous.

At last he spoke, "Lynette, you know it is very wrong to use violence, especially against a guest."

"But Claude said it was a disgrace for you to marry Maman!" I burst out.

"Did he?" asked my father.

"Yes and he called her common!"

"Indeed?"

"Yes, so I knocked him down. I didn't know he'd be such a baby about it."

I hung my head and waited for the reprimand to continue, but instead my father said, "In that case, I'm proud of you, Lynette."

"What?" I said.

"I'm proud of you for standing up for your mother."

"You are?"

He chuckled, "The little snob deserved a good thrashing and you certainly gave him one."

"But you told me it was wrong to use violence," I said.

"In general it is, but there are some things in this world worth fighting for and your mother is one of them."

I thought about this for a moment and then asked, "Papa, was it really a scandal when you married Maman?"

He stopped laughing and said thoughtfully, "Yes, I suppose it was. The Chagnys are a very great family, you see, and so we are expected to marry into other great families."

"And Maman's family wasn't great?"

"Not in the ways that matter to people like Henri's father," he said darkly. "And it didn't help that we married so soon after…" He trailed off.

"After what?" I prompted him.

"Nothing," he said.

His tone told me that I would get no further, but I couldn't help trying, "After what, Father? After an earthquake? After a fire? A flood? A shipwreck?"

He stood up quickly in his chair and said, "Go and apologize to your grandmother for being pert. I'll see you at supper."

After that Henri and I were inseparable for the rest of their visit. I showed him all over the estate, from the gardens to the stables to the climbing tree to the swimming hole. At first Claude sulked in the house, until at last he grew so bored of staying indoors that he joined us in our ramblings. Henri made Claude apologize for insulting my mother and then we became a united trio that Grandmère said had been sent by the devil to torment her. Altogether, it was a splendid summer and I was sorry to see the twins go.

Not long after they left us, my mother visited the nursery and told me she had exciting news.

"What is it?" I asked eagerly, thinking she might take me to the seaside.

"You are going to get a new brother or sister."

I was very disappointed. I did not consider this exciting news at all.

She must have seen the dismay in my face because she knelt in front of me and said, "What is wrong, Lynette?"

"I don't want a little brother or sister," I declared.

"Why not?"

"Because then I will have to share you."

She hugged me very tightly, and said, "I will love you just as much when the baby comes." Then her eyes got the faraway look they so often had and she whispered, "It is possible to love two people at once."

"You mean the way you love Father and me?" I asked.

"Yes," she said brightly, but I knew it was a lie. She was thinking of someone else. She was always thinking of someone else these days and I thought it must be the baby. But why should thinking of the baby make her so sad?

I watched my little mother get fatter and fatter until one day she did not come down to breakfast. I asked Papa if she was having the baby.

"No," he said, his face troubled. "It is too soon. She's sick."

It was a frightening time. Doctors and nurses came and went at odd hours. Grandmère's fits of temper came more often than usual and poor Papa went around the house with a terrible, lost look, as if he did not know where he was.

One night the doctor used the word "crisis" and we all camped outside Maman's room. I fell asleep with my head on my father's shoulder and when I woke up he had laid me on a small divan in her boudoir. The light outside told me it was early morning.

Papa and Grandmère were huddled in the corner with the doctor, who said in a low voice, "She lost the baby."

I knew that lost meant dead. I felt very guilty because I had not wanted the baby and now it was dead. Poor, lost baby would never get to see its mother or father.

The doctor spoke again, "She will never have another child."

"What?" gasped Grandmère.

"But she will live?" asked my father, his hands shaking.

"Yes, if she rests and does not excite herself," said the doctor and then he excused himself, leaving Papa and Grandmère alone.

"Thank God," said my father, sinking into a chair.

"Thank God?" hissed Grandmère. "For what? That your silly chorus girl cannot even give you an heir? A daughter cannot inherit the title or the estate, Raoul; you must have a son."

"Lower your voice, Mother. You will wake Lynette."

"I told you no good would come of marrying an opera brat," said Grandmère in a quieter voice.

"I've just lost a child and I almost lost my wife! I am in no mood for this discussion," said my father angrily and he stormed out of the room.

I got up to follow him, but unfortunately ran into Grandmère on my way out.

"Go play outside, can't you see you're in the way?" she scolded me.

"But I haven't had any breakfast yet," I said.

"We'll eat late this morning. Just go outside, so we can get some peace," she said.

I put on my coat and hat and obediently went outside. It was November and I did not like to walk in the garden and see all the dead things. I wandered very far until I was beyond the formal garden. Here the plants were not in neat rows, but instead grew every which-way, like my unmanageable curls.

A burst of color flashed in the corner of my eye and when I went to inspect I found a single red rose way back in a bush. I did not know how there came to be such a flower so late in the year, but I took out the little knife Henri had given me as a going away present and cut the stem away. I knew exactly what I would do with it. I would give this rose to my mother and she would be happy and see that one little girl was enough, even if I could not inherit the title or the estate.

I gave my coat and hat to one of the maids and trudged up the stairs to my mother's bedroom. My father was dozing in a chair outside the door and I snuck past him to where my mother lay sleeping.

I decided to wait for her to wake up and I laid the rose on the table by her bed, so that she would see it when she opened her eyes. It seemed rather a plain gift now that I was in my mother's luxurious suite, but I did not know what I could do to improve on it. Suddenly I remembered the ribbon in my hair and I yanked it our, my curls spilling around my face. I tied the black velvet ribbon around the rose and set it back down on the table, pleased with the result.

I sat in the corner for what seemed like a very long time. It was hard to remain still, but I managed it by thinking about how happy Maman would be when she saw her rose.

At last she began to stir and then, finally, her eyes fluttered open. It was just as I'd imagined, she saw the rose right away! But then, instead of smiling in surprise, she opened her mouth and screamed out loud. She had been so quiet and so still for so many days that I had forgotten she could make such a noise. It was awful. Her face was even whiter than usual and her eyes were wide with shock.

"He's here, the Phantom of the Opera!" she cried and then fainted dead away.


	2. All the Things We've Shared

**Chapter 2: All the Things We've Shared**

For one horrible moment I thought I'd killed my mother, but I soon saw her chest rising and falling regularly, so I knew she was alive. I started to sob with relief.

Maman's screams must have awakened my father because he burst into the room and said, "Good God, what is the matter?"

Before I could answer, his eyes fixed on the red rose sitting on her bedside table and he let out a yell, backing away as if from some invisible enemy.

"Impossible. He can't be here. He can't," he whispered. He turned to me and asked urgently, "Lynette, did anyone else come in here?"

"No, it was just me, Papa. I wanted to give Maman a present and then I found a rose in the garden and I put my hair ribbon on it and when she saw it she fainted, and oh I'm so sorry, Papa!" I said and threw myself into his arms, still sobbing.

A look of relief crossed my father's face and he held me tightly. "There, there, don't cry. You didn't know any better." He patted my head and added, "But I must fetch the nurse. And I must get _that _away from here before she sees it again."

He picked up the rose gingerly, as if it might explode in his hand, and left the room.

On the bed Maman began to toss and turn and I held her hand to try to calm her.

"It's over now," she repeated over and over. "It's over now. It's over now."

"What is over now, Maman?" I asked.

"The music of the night," she murmured, and then she was still again.

My father came back into the room with the nurse and asked anxiously, "Will she be all right?"

The nurse nodded distractedly and began to wave smelling salts under my mother's nose. Maman shook her head and moaned softly.

Just then Grandmère appeared at the door and said, "Raoul, the girl should not see this. Let me take her to have her breakfast."

"Of course," said Papa. He turned to me and added, "You must be brave Lynette."

I hugged him again and then Grandmère led me out of the room. As she shut the door, I saw Maman sit up weakly and whisper, "Raoul, it was awful, like seeing ghost."

"Don't worry, my love," he said. "I'm here now."

That night my father put me to bed, a rare treat.

"I wanted to make sure you did not blame yourself for what happened this morning," he said, as he tucked the comforter around me. "You meant to do a very kind thing, I know."

"But why was Maman so frightened of a rose?" I asked.

"Sick people often have very odd fears," explained Papa. "That is why we must be very careful around your mother right now.

"May I see her tomorrow?" I asked.

"If she is well enough," he said. "In the meantime, I think you need a special bedtime story after such a long day."

"Tell me about when you met Maman," I begged. The tale was an old favorite of mine.

"Very well," he said and from the pleased way he said it I knew that this tale was a favorite of his, as well. "When I met your mother she was even younger than you. She was staying at the seaside with her father and she loved to dash up and down the sandy beach in front of their cottage. One day when she was running, the wind blew her scarf into the sea."

"It was a red scarf, wasn't it?" I interrupted.

"Yes, it was a red scarf," he said smiling. "Well, your mother loved that scarf, so she started to cry because she thought she had lost it forever."

"But she hadn't."

"No, she hadn't. I was watching her, you see. I had been watching her for several days, running on the beach, but I was too shy to ask her let me play with her. When I saw her crying, I dove into the sea after the scarf. I gave it back to her and then she gave me the prettiest smile I had ever seen."

"Is that when you fell in love with her?"

"Not that summer. We were just playmates then and we spent all our time exploring the beach and collecting fairy stories."

"Mother doesn't like anyone telling me fairy stories."

"She doesn't want to fill your head with nonsense. She wants to make sure you know what is real and what is not."

"When did you fall in love with her?" I asked.

"Not until many years later when I happened to see her at the opera. Her voice was so pure and so beautiful that I fell in love with her on the spot."

"Maman has the best voice in the world. I wish I could sing as wonderfully as she does."

"I think you have a very pretty voice, Lynette."

"But it's not like hers," I said.

"That's because your mother had years and years of training. She moved to the opera house when she was only seven years old."

"Maybe I could get a teacher like hers and then I will be just as good," I said.

His brow furrowed and he paused for a moment before replying carefully, "No, I think it will be better if you learn to sing from your mother."

"When she is well again?" I asked hopefully.

"Yes," he said. "She will be well again very soon."

He was wrong; Maman's health was slow to recover. I was only allowed to see her for a few minutes each day and since my father spent all his time at her side, I saw very little of him either. Finally, at Christmas she was able to get out of bed.

I sat in the parlor and watched my father carry her into the room, setting her down gently on the couch. The candles shed a soft light that made her pale face seem to glow.

"Merry Christmas Maman! You look wonderful!" I exclaimed, clapping my hands in delight.

"You promised you would be quiet, Lynette," Papa reminded me.

"Oh Raoul, the child is allowed to make a little noise at Christmas. I don't mind. I'm just glad to be out of my room finally," said my mother.

"Look at the doll Papa gave me," I said, showing her the pretty porcelain figurine.

"She's lovely," said Maman. "Your father always had excellent taste."

I noticed something sparkling at her neck and said, "Did he give you that, Maman?"

She fingered the diamond necklace absently and said, "Yes, he did. It's very nice, isn't it?"

"It's the prettiest necklace I ever saw," I said.

"I'm glad that my choice in dolls and jewelry is approved," said Papa, laughing.

"Can you sing us some Christmas carols, Maman?" I asked.

"Of course," she said. "But you both must sing with me."

So we sang all our favorite Christmas songs with Maman's clear high voice soaring over us. Then I showed her the rest of my presents, but she did not say much. Maman always grew very quiet and thoughtful after she sang. We had a delicious supper right there in the parlor and it was good to see my mother eating real food again.

I thought that the improvement in Maman's condition might be partly due to the fact that Grandmère had left us for Paris as she did every winter, going to stay with her daughter, the mother of my cousins Henri and Claude. I wished I could see them again, but Maman did not like Paris, so we never went. Every year there was a frightful row about it with Grandmère insisting that it was our duty as Chagnys to attend the whirl of parties that marked Paris society during the winter and Papa refusing to go until Maman changed her mind.

"How is the girl ever to make a suitable match if she is kept shut away like a nun?" Grandmère would protest.

Papa always laughed at this and said, "Lynette is a child and will remain so for many more years. It is absurd to be talking of her getting a husband when she is not even ten years old!"

This year there was no row, since Maman's sickness meant that we could not possibly make the journey, though the city was no more than 40 miles away.

I was a little sorry to miss my cousins and the sights of Paris, but the beauty of winter at the Château de Chagny more than made up for the loss. I spent my days snowshoeing and skating on the river and making snow angels for Maman to see out her window and beating Papa in snowball fights, although sometimes I suspected that he let me win. He also took me on sleigh rides when the sun was shining, but that winter we did not go on many of those because it had snowed more than usual and Papa predicted there would be floods in the spring.

"Oh, do you think it will ever really be spring?" asked Maman wistfully.

"Of course it will, my love," Papa assured her, but his eyes were troubled. Though her body was recovering, Maman still suffered from fits of depression and there were days when she would not get out of bed, even though she was strong enough to do so.

In hopes of raising Maman's spirits, Papa invited her best friend, Mme. La Baronne de Castelot-Barbezac, to spend a few weeks with us at the New Year. The idea seemed to work and Maman was almost cheerful as we prepared for the arrival of "Aunt Meg" as I had always called la Baronne.

At last she came and Maman took her at once to the sitting room for a long gossip, while I played in the corner with Aunt Meg's roly-poly baby girl, who liked to tug at my hair.

"Isn't she the fattest thing you've ever seen?" asked Aunt Meg, glancing over to where the baby crawled on a blanket.

"I'm afraid the little dumpling will never be in the _corps de ballet_ like her maman was," laughed my mother. I was so happy to hear her laugh again.

"That is exactly what my mother says, but of course our daughters are destined for greater things than the opera house," said Aunt Meg.

"Sometimes I think there is nothing greater than the opera," sighed Maman, all the laughter gone again. I wondered what it was that made Maman so slow to start laughing and then so quick to stop.

"Oh, but I haven't told you the most exciting news yet!" said Aunt Meg. "The Opera Populaire has been rebuilt and refurbished and is to begin a new season this winter, the first since…" She looked over at me and said, "Since it was closed."

"Is it true? I thought that Andre and Firmin could not find a suitable buyer," said Maman, plainly astonished.

"Well, they have found an unsuitable one, a rich American with a fondness for French opera. He's hired practically every builder in Paris for the job and now the place is as grand as ever it was in our day."

"You've seen it then?" asked Maman.

"Yes, I saw it just before I left to come here. Most of the investors are friends of the baron, of course, so we were given a private tour. You really should come to Paris and see it, Christine. I'm sure it would do you good to see how the rest of the world has moved on from...from what happened."

"I never go to Paris; you know that," said Maman.

"But it's so silly of you, dearest. There is nothing to be afraid of now."

"Did they have any trouble with the rebuilding?" asked Maman, a queer note of suspicion creeping into her voice. I thought I knew what she meant. I remembered all the problems Papa had had over the renovations in the North Tower. Builders were an awful lot of trouble he had said, so I could imagine the difficulty in restoring an entire opera house.

The same sort of suspicion had crept into Aunt Meg's voice and she seemed to choose her words very carefully as she said, "Now, Christine, there are always accidents on any construction project, things going missing and the like, but no one was killed or even seriously injured."

"I'm glad of that," said Maman. "But you still haven't convinced me to go near the opera house."

"Why not, Maman?" I asked.

They both stared at me as if they had forgotten of my existence and Maman said, "Because I would much rather stay in our lovely home where it is safe, wouldn't you?"

"Of course, Maman," I said, eager to please her, but to myself I wondered what was so unsafe about an opera house.

Maman and Aunt Meg spent most of their time in this way, just sitting and recalling old friends, old stories, and old jokes. I heard how they would to sneak out of their dormitories at night to play in the theatre, how La Carlotta used to terrify the ballet girls with her mood swings, and how Mme Giry, the ballet mistress and Aunt Meg's mother, drilled them until their legs ached with exhaustion.

One morning Maman looked at Aunt Meg and exclaimed, "I say Meg, all your dresses seem quite tight around the middle. You're not expecting a child are you?"

Aunt Meg blushed and stammered, "Yes. I didn't think I was showing yet, and I didn't like to mention it because…"

"I can't have any more children myself," finished Maman quietly.

"I'm sorry, Christine," said Aunt Meg, just as quietly.

"I wouldn't mind if it weren't for Raoul," said my mother dreamily, as if Aunt Meg hadn't spoken. "He says nothing about it, but I know it hurts him to think that his beloved home will go to a stranger. The only other heir lives in Quebec, I think."

I remembered when Papa had gotten a letter from the man in Quebec, hinting that he might turn the château into a hotel for rich foreigners. It did not seem fair to me that a man like that, who cared nothing for out pretty house and gardens, would get to do what he liked with it someday, while I, who had lived here my entire life and loved each brick almost as dearly as my own parents, would have to leave. All this, just because I was a girl and the estate was passed on the male line, so that not even my cousins Henri and Claude could inherit, as it was their mother, not their father, who was a Chagny.

A few days later it was sunny enough for Papa to take us all for a sleigh ride. It was the first time Maman had been outside since her illness and Papa made her wear layers and layers of clothes to make sure she did not catch cold.

"You look more like a bundle of laundry than a person," laughed Aunt Meg.

"I can barely move," said Maman, also laughing. "Is this really necessary, Raoul?"

"Yes, I'm not taking any chances with you," said Papa and I could tell that he was just as glad as I was to hear her laugh, no matter how quickly she stopped.

The day was crisp and clear and Papa let the horses go as fast as they liked. It was a splendid ride and when we returned home we had a special supper, for that night was New Year's Eve. For the first time, Papa said I was allowed to stay up until midnight.

We all sat in the parlor and listened to the fireworks being letting off outside. I knew Papa had let the servants have a bonfire, but it was much cozier in here, eating sweets and listening to Papa, Maman, and Aunt Meg talk about strange grown up things.

"How I long to for spring," said Aunt Meg. "I have such plans for the grounds this year."

"You really do have the finest rose garden in the country," said Maman.

"I thought you didn't like roses, Maman," I said, sucking on a lemon drop.

Her face froze and I knew that I had said the wrong thing.

Papa looked worried and Aunt Meg quickly said, "Come, let us all say our New Year's resolutions. Mine are to get the second greenhouse finished and to go to church more often. What about you, Lynette?"

"To bother Grandmère less and work on my long division," I replied. My secret resolution was to make Maman well again, but I did not like to say that out loud.

"Mine are to be a good husband and father," said Papa.

"I have only one," said Maman. "To be less afraid."

She rested her head on Papa's shoulder and then Aunt Meg coaxed her to sing for us.

I admired how skilled Aunt Meg was at distracting Maman from subjects that saddened her. I wished she could teach me the trick of it before she left the next week, for I never could tell which topics were all right for conversation with Maman and which, like the roses, were not.

Aunt Meg's visit had done Maman a world of good, so much so that when Grandmère returned to us at the end of January, Papa at last felt comfortable leaving the estate to attend to some matters of business in Marseilles, which had been neglected with so much of his focus on Maman's poor health.

I managed to hold back the tears until after his carriage pulled out of sight and even then Grandmère scolded me, "It will not do to worry your mother like that. You must be a brave girl. He will be back by mid-March."

She was right, of course. I had to be brave for Maman, who was really looking almost herself again. At least the shadows under her eyes were not quite so dark and she had started to take more trouble with her appearance, the way she always had before. She was so much improved in fact, that I was most surprised to come down to breakfast three days after Papa'a departure and find Maman's seat at the table empty.

"Where is Maman?" I asked Grandmère. "Is she unwell?"

"No, she has gone to Paris for the day on some errands. She is going to stay the night with La Baronne de Castelot-Barbezac."

I gasped, "But what if her sickness comes back while she is away? How will we know she is all right? And why has she gone in the first place? Maman never goes to the city."

"The number of questions you ask is most unbecoming in a girl of your age," said Grandmère. "But as I see you will not rest until you are satisfied, another unsatisfactory trait I might add, I will say that she has taken a nurse with her and promised to be back by dark tomorrow, so her health will be at no risk. As for the reasons for her departure, your mother does not have to explain her actions to you."

Her face betrayed nothing, but something about the uneasy tone in Grandmère's voice told me that she did not like this strange visit to Paris any more than I did.


	3. Silent and Resigned

**Note**: This is the last Erik-less chapter. He's coming…

**Chapter 3: Silent and Resigned**:

The day my mother was to return from Paris, it began to snow, the last snow of the winter. Grandmère said she was unsure whether or not Maman would attempt to come home despite the weather. She had only been gone a day, but I couldn't help worrying about the affect the journey would have on Maman's already poor health. As we waited, I peered out the front window, while Grandmère paced back and forth in front of the roaring fire in the sitting room.

"The boy will never forgive me if anything happens to her," said Grandmère, more to herself than to me. "The boy" was what Grandmère still called Papa sometimes. I wished he was here. He would never have let Maman put herself at risk by going to Paris in her condition.

Just then the carriage pulled up in front of the house and I rushed out of the room to see my mother stumble into the foyer, supported by the nurse and driver. Grandmère instructed them to take Maman up to her room, where they wrapped her in warm blankets to try to stop her shivering. She slept for most of the next week, but at last her fever broke and I was allowed to see her.

"I'm so glad you are getting better, Maman," I said.

She smiled wanly and did not answer.

"Maman, what did you do in Paris?" I asked.

She closed her eyes and said, "I visited old friends."

"Were they glad to see you?"

"Yes," she said. "Very glad."

"I think your mother needs to rest, now," said the nurse, so I gave Maman a hug and went to make her more get-well cards in the nursery.

That night I was awakened by the sound of something trailing past my bedroom door. The little clock by my bed told me it was almost one o'clock in the morning and I got up to see who could be wandering the halls at this time of night.

Once in the passageway with a small candle, I saw two white figures moving toward the North Tower. Pushing down the prickle of fear that went through me (_Be brave Lynette,_ I told myself) I hurried to catch up with them.

When they reached the door that led to the tower, one of the white-clad figures turned around and I saw that it was Grandmère.

"What are you doing here?" she hissed when she spotted me, "Go back to bed."

But I had noticed who was with her. It was Maman and she was drifting slowly down the winding staircase of the North Tower.

"Why is Maman awake in the middle of the night?" I asked.

"She's walking in her sleep," said Grandmère. "Now go to bed. I must follow her and see that she doesn't hurt herself."

"Then I'm coming too. She's _my_ mother," I said stubbornly.

"Fine," snapped Grandmère.

We made our way down the stairs and from below us we could hear my mother singing softly, "_In sleep he sang to me, in dreams he came, that voice which calls to me, and speaks my name."_

It occurred to me that I had not heard her sing since she came back from Paris, which was odd for Maman, who was always humming some tune or another, even when she was sick. Listening to Maman sing normally gave me great pleasure, but now it only served to make me more afraid.

We followed her to the base of the tower, into a dark storage room filled with old furniture that no one used anymore. Maman wandered over to the corner where there stood a large, old-fashioned mirror. She stopped in front of it, transfixed, and then began to sing again, "_I remember there was mist, swirling mist upon a vast glassy lake. There were candles all around and on the lake there was a boat and in the boat there was a man." _

She tilted her head and continued_, "Who was that shape in the shadows? Whose is the face in the mask?"_

Grandmère and I exchanged horrified glances.

"What is she talking about?" I asked.

Grandmère bit her lip and said, "I don't know."

Maman had lifted her hand as if in a caress, when suddenly her face contorted and she bellowed in a strange, low voice that was not her own, "_Damn you! You little prying Pandora! You little demon, is this what you wanted to see? Curse you!"_

I buried my head in Grandmère's arm, trying to block out the sound of my mother saying these terrible things that were so unlike her, but she continued to shout in that sinister voice. Then the shouting turned to desperate pleading and she said, "_Fear can turn to love, you'll learn to see, to find the man behind the monster_."

"Oh, she must be mad!" Grandmère whispered, making the sign of the cross.

"Can't we make her stop?" I asked.

"No, it is very dangerous to wake a sleepwalker before they return to bed," said Grandmère.

So we stood there in silence while my mother sobbed wretchedly, until at last she lifted her head and said, still in that strange voice, "_Come we must return; those two fools who run my theatre will be missing you_."

Then she went up the stairs and back to her room, with Grandmère and I right at her heels. Maman lay down on her big, soft bed and did not move again. My candle cast odd flickering shadows on the wall and I half-expected them to come to life and reveal all this to be a nightmare

"Go to sleep now, child. I will stay with her," said Grandmère, blowing out the candles.

"I'll stay, too," I said, crawling into bed next to Maman. Grandmère looked almost relieved not to be left alone with my mother.

Somehow I managed to fall asleep and when I woke up in the morning I found a small breakfast waiting on a table by the bed, along with fresh clothes.

"Are you hungry, Maman?" I asked, but she was still asleep, so I dressed and ate in silence.

Grandmère came into the room just as I was finishing and said, "Lynette, we need to have a talk."

It was the first time she had ever called me Lynette instead of "the girl" or "the child," so I knew that whatever she had to say was serious.

Out in the hall she checked to make sure that no one else was around and then said in a low voice, "You mustn't speak to anyone about what you saw last night. Your father and I have been keeping the details of your mother's condition a secret. All anyone else knows is that she's ill. You have no idea what would happen if word of her…odd behavior got out. There would be a scandal."

"It's all right Grandmère. I won't tell," I assured her, but I couldn't help wondering what else they might be keeping from me.

Grandmère and I both slept in Maman's room that night and once again we followed her as she went down the steps of the North Tower.

This time she sang in her own voice saying, "_Think of me, think of me waking, silent and resigned. Imagine me trying too hard to put you from my mind. Recall those days, look back on all those times, think of the things we'll never do. There will never be a day when I won't think of you."_

Her voice ached with longing and regret. Then she whirled around and looked straight through me, as if I were invisible. It made me sick the way her eyes stared at me without seeing.

"My poor Lynette," Maman was saying. "She worries about me, just like her father. It ought to be me worrying about her, but all I can think about is the past. Oh I'm a terrible mother!"

With a cry she began to bang her head against the stone wall.

"Maman, stop!" I shrieked, but she continued to beat her head until Grandmère and I dragged her away.

We laid her out on the floor and I held my candle up to her face to see the damage. Her forehead was a bloody mess and she would not stop thrashing around in Grandmère's arms.

"Oh, do you think she's possessed by a ghost?" I asked.

"There's no such thing as ghosts," said Grandmère and I could tell it was an effort for her to remain so calm. "Now, go tell the footmen to fetch the doctor and bring me the smelling salts at once."

As I raced for the door she added, "Don't tell them everything, Lynette, just that your mother is sick. It wouldn't do for anyone else to know the truth."

I nodded my head, understanding that now I too was expected to lie in order to protect my mother from gossip.

I ran to the servants' quarters and woke up everyone I could. None of them were very happy to have their sleep interrupted so suddenly, but when I told them what the trouble was, they all moved quickly, for they loved my mother too and knew there would be hell to pay if anything happened to her.

Once again, the doctors and nurses seemed to take up permanent residence at the château. Grandmère sent an express to my father, urging him to come home, and three days later he returned very late at night.

I was asleep on the divan in my mother's room when his soft voice woke me.

"I'm sorry I left you, my love."

"Oh Raoul, I don't mean to be such a burden." That was my mother, of course. Still half-asleep, I thought how nice it was to have us all together again.

"Don't say that," said Papa. "All I want to do is take care of you."

"But I should be able to take care of myself. I'm a grown woman. I shouldn't be making life miserable for you and Lynette."

"Lynette and I just want you to get well."

"I don't think I can. My sins weigh on me."

"You've done nothing wrong!" my father insisted.

"I left him alone in the dark, Raoul, all alone. I cannot forget that," said Maman.

"He let you go," my father said.

"Exactly! He let me go, even though it was like tearing out his own heart to do so. Any happiness I have now is thanks to him." Her voice grew even quieter, so that I could barely hear her, "My poor, poor Angel."

I did not understand what they were talking about and yet it filled me with a kind of dread nonetheless. I felt like I was eavesdropping, but if I moved now, they would know that I had heard and I did not want to upset them any further. So I fought the urge to run from the room with my hands over my ears and instead lay there perfectly still, trying not to listen.

"I'll never understood how you can feel pity for such a monster," said Papa.

"He was not born a monster, Raoul. The world is a cruel place and its cruelty twisted him."

There was a pause and for a moment I hoped they had finished talking, but then my father said in a low, shaky voice, "You've never looked at me the way you looked at him that night you sang in his opera."

"I'm sorry," said Maman.

"I don't care, Christine. I love you anyway."

"I love you too Raoul," she sighed.

Usually hearing them say those words gave me comfort, but as the tears slid down my nose, I thought that I had never felt less comforted in my life. Eventually I cried myself to sleep, but Maman and Papa did not notice because they had their own sorrows to occupy them.

There had always been a sadness about my mother and now it threatened to overwhelm her, my father, and the entire household. We all spoke in hushed voices and tiptoed around the house to avoid upsetting her. Sometimes I wanted to shake her and say, "What is wrong with you? Can't you see how unhappy you are making us all?" Then I would feel guilty for being angry with my poor mother, who could not help being sick.

One wet night at the end of March, I was staring out my window at the river, which threatened to overflow its banks in the torrential rain. It seemed that Papa's predictions of a flood were about to come true.

Then the nurse appeared at the door saying, "Your mother is asking for you, miss."

I trotted after her into my mother's gold paneled suite. She lay propped up on her pillows, her face drawn and her eyes weary.

"Hello, Lynette," she said.

"Hello, Maman. How are you feeling tonight?" I asked.

"I'm fine," she said. "I wanted to see you."

I climbed up next to her and she pulled me into an embrace, holding me tightly for several minutes.

"You are going to be all right. I know you're going to be all right," she said, as she lay back against the pillows.

"Of course, Maman. Don't worry about me," I said. Something about her tone made me uneasy.

"I hope that someday you will understand."

"Understand what?" I asked, but she had shut her eyes.

"I'm so tired," she murmured.

"I'll let you go to sleep then," I said. "Goodnight Maman." I kissed her gently on the forehead.

"Goodnight, darling. I love you very, very much," she said.

"I love you too," I replied and then I returned to my room, wondering why I felt so scared to leave her.

The next morning I went downstairs to find the entire house in an uproar. The servants huddled together in small groups in the hallway, muttering to each other and some of them gave me oddly furtive looks as I made my way into the dining room.

"How could she have gotten out without anyone seeing?" my father was asking. He sat at his usual place at the head of the table and his toast had a single bite taken out of it, as if he had been interrupted before getting a good start on his breakfast.

"I don't know," said the frightened looking nurse. "She was far too weak to move, I tell you. I've never been more shocked than when I found her bed empty this morning. I only stepped out for ten minutes to make her tea!"

That's when I realized they were talking about Maman. A knot formed in my stomach.

"Are you saying she was abducted?" demanded Papa. He had not yet noticed that I was in the room.

I saw Grandmère at the far end of the table, her head in her hands. I took a seat next to her and she reached out to give my shoulder a squeeze.

"Don't fret, child," she said quietly. "Your father sent a man to fetch the police and a dozen others to search the grounds. He's going to go out himself, once he's finished questioning the nurse. They'll find her. She can't have gone very far."

Suddenly, a soaking wet man burst in on us. I recognized him as one of the local farmers who rented land from my father. His clothes dripped onto the red carpet and his eyes were wild. We all turned to stare at him as he stood framed in the doorway.

"The Vicomtesse is dead!" he exclaimed.


	4. Fighting Back Tears

**Note**: This chapter is sad, but it's got some Erik, so that helps. Yay for reviews, even if it's just three, they make me happy, so keep 'em coming. Oh and how do you let nonmembers review? I'm rather unknowledgeable about things like that.

**Chapter 4: Fighting Back Tears**

"She's dead?" said my father in a faint voice. He sounded as ill as I felt.

"Please, sir, explain to us what you mean," said Grandmère to the wet man who had barged in on us so unexpectedly.

The farmer began his story nervously, "A bunch of us was working to reinforce the South Bridge, so that it wouldn't get washed away in the storm. We spotted the Vicomtesse across the bank in nothing but her nightdress, so I called out, asking if she needed any assistance. She didn't seem to hear me, just kept walking right along the edge of the river. Some of the men went to help her, but before they got there she stumbled and then…"

"No!" interrupted my father. He had stood up and all the color was drained from his face.

The farmer looked stricken, but he continued, "We ran as fast as we could to the spot she fell in, only there weren't no trace anywhere. It would've been suicide to jump in after her, though some of us waded out as far as we could, but we were too late."

"No!" yelled my father again.

My head began to swim. I did not seem to understand what was happening around me. My father was right, of course; Maman could not possibly be dead. I had spoken to her just last night.

"I'm sorry, my lord, but I saw it with my own eyes," said the farmer.

"No! You're wrong!" shouted my father. "I'm coming, Christine!" Then he ran out the door, like a man possessed.

"The boy is not in his right mind; he may hurt himself," said Grandmère urgently, rising in her chair.

"But where could he have gone?" asked the nurse.

"To the South Bridge, you little fool," said Grandmère, striding quickly out of the room.

We all followed her, me, the nurse, the farmer, and half the servants, as well. Going down the front steps, we met the policeman my father had sent for and he joined us too. The downpour had us all drenched after walking just a few feet. The wind and raindrops stung my face, but I did not really feel them. I did not feel anything. Five minutes later we were at the South Bridge with the wide river tearing past us at lighting speed.

On the ground lay my father's coat and boots. I could barely make him out in the middle of the raging water, fighting the strong current to search for my mother. Above the howling of the wind I heard him shouting her name. He would surface for a moment and then dive under again and again. Each time his head disappeared I thought, _Maybe this time he will find her_.

"I don't know how he's staying afloat in these conditions," said the policeman in amazement.

"He's killing himself!" cried Grandmère. "You must stop him."

"Begging your ladyship's pardon, but it won't do no good, unless he comes on his own. I can't swim in that mess and drag him against his will at the same time," reasoned the policeman.

"Papa please come back!" I screamed.

He paused for a moment and then shouted, "Don't worry Lynette. I'll find her!"

A floating log came dangerously close to hitting his head and I knew that I had to stop him somehow. Without pausing to think, I waded into the river, ignoring the cries of Grandmère and the rest behind me. The water was very swift and I thought how easy it would be just to stop struggling and let it carry me far away.

"Lynette! What are you doing?" shouted Papa when he saw me paddling toward him.

"Get her out of there, Raoul!" screeched Grandmère.

He started to swim toward me when suddenly I felt the current yank me under. For a moment I was lost beneath the surface and I could not tell which way was up or down. I beat at the water and twisted this way and that, but to no avail. Then strong arms seized me and I was looking into Papa's frantic eyes.

"Lynette, what were you thinking?" he asked.

"Let's go back, Papa. I don't want to lose you too," I whispered.

I don't know if he heard me over the roaring river, but he pulled us both to shore anyway. He did not go back into the water, as I had feared he might, and the two of us lay there in the mud, gasping for breath, while the small crowd stared.

"I'm sorry, Lynette. I tried. I tried to save her. I tried," he kept saying over and over. He seemed tired and beaten.

"I know Papa," I said and then I looked down at the black, swirling water that rushed by us. In that moment I knew that I had lost my mother forever. She was so very weak. Once she fell in, the water must have dragged her under quickly. Had she felt the same blind panic I had or had she gone calmly to her fate?

I clapped a hand over my mouth to stop the scream that threatened to escape. I thought that if I started to cry or shriek I would not be able stop, so instead I began to shake, my teeth chattering violently.

"The child is soaked," said Grandmère. "We must get her to the house."

My father carried me to my bed and then the doctor gave me medicine that made me fall into a wonderfully dreamless sleep. After that things were a blur with people speaking in muted tones and giving me grave looks and calling me the "poor child." A woman came and measured me for the new black dresses that I had to wear all the time, to show respect for the dead, Grandmère said.

At last it was the day of the funeral. They had not yet found Maman's body, so we would have to bury an empty coffin. Grandmère said we could fill it once her body was discovered, which might be in a few weeks or a few months or never. I stared at myself in the mirror and thought how much I looked like my mother had when she was sick, my face ashen against my dark dress and hair, my eyes round and sad.

"You must be brave, Lynette," I said to my reflection and I did not recognize the hoarse sound of my own voice.

I felt as if I floated through that day, as if I were not myself. It was not me who sat quietly during mass feeling as if I might vomit, while the priest said nice, impersonal things about Maman. It was not me who laid a white lily on my mother's empty casket and hid my face when they lowered it into the ground. It was not me who squeezed my father's hand, as he struggled to maintain his composure in front of all those people.

It was not me who told Aunt Meg that I was perfectly well, thank you, and then walked away to be by myself in the garden. It was a gray day, perfectly fitting for a funeral. Less fitting were the little shoots of green poking up from the earth, showing that spring had come at last.

"Why didn't you cry during the funeral mass?" asked a voice behind me.

I turned around to find my cousins Henri and Claude staring at me, dressed in matching black suits. Next to them was a sandy-haired boy I did not know.

It was Claude who had spoken first and Henri kicked him whispering, "Don't bother her with questions, her mother is dead!"

In a louder voice he said to me, "This is our friend Victoir. His father was at school with your father and his estate is just nine miles from here."

I did not reply, since I was busy biting my lip to keep from crying. I had not cried at all since Maman's death. The effort was starting to wear on me and after a moment I tasted blood.

"I was very sorry to hear about your mother," said Victoir politely.

"I should like to be left alone," I said.

"Please, Lynette, we want to help," said Henri, stepping toward me.

"I said I want to be alone," I replied, a little louder this time.

"We want to help," Henri said again.

"Go away!" I shouted and then I punched him in the face.

I took a mean sort of pleasure in watching him fall, his nose bleeding. Then I felt guilty when I saw him blinking rapidly to stop the tears. I knew that trick; it had stopped working for me days ago. I also knew the trick of digging my nails into my hands, pinching my arm, and gnawing on the inside of my cheek, all to keep myself from crying. Suddenly, I could not hold back any longer and I started to sob, collapsing on the ground next to Henri.

"I'm sorry I hit you," I said in a choked voice. "It wasn't me. I mean, I am not myself today."

"It's all right," he said, patting me on the back.

"Henri was right; you do have a very fine right hook for girl," said Victoir, helping me to my feet. "They told me how you knocked down Claude last summer." Then he added, "You may use my handkerchief, since Henri's has blood on it."

"Thank you," I said, but it was not really me who said it.

And it was not me who trudged after the three of them to the house, where Grandmère made me eat food that tasted like gravel. It was not me who stood next to my father and graciously said goodbye to our guests, as if it were a tea party instead of my mother's funeral. It was not me who went to sleep that night, wishing that morning would never come.

In fact I did not feel like myself again until I woke up in the middle of the night to find a strange man at the end of my bed. Tall and dark, with black clothes and a black mask covering his face, he should have frightened me out of my wits, but if my mother's death had taught me anything, it was that I must always be brave.

"Who are you?" I asked, popping up quickly and standing on my bed, so that I was eye to eye with him.

He started at the sight of me and then began to edge toward the window, as he said in a deep and powerful voice, "I am an angel."

"No you're not," I said flatly.

"Then I'm a ghost."

"There's no such thing as ghosts," I said.

"I'm just a figment of your imagination," he replied in an annoyed way. "Go back to sleep."

"I don't take orders from perfect strangers," I said. "Even if they are fig…fig-whatsits of my imagination.

"Spirited words, Mademoiselle," he said, still sliding toward the window. "But can you back them with deeds?"

"I am not scared of you," I retorted. "If you try to hurt me, I will make your nose bleed, just like I did to my cousins, Henri and Claude."

"Favoring fists over brains, I see. There can be no doubt now that you are a Chagny."

"What do you mean?" I asked, not sure by his tone whether or not he was insulting me.

"Alas, I'm afraid the time for questions has come to an end." His words were polite, but I got the distinct impression he was mocking me. He heaved a large bundle outside and swung a leg out the window.

"You can't leave that way. We're two floors up," I told him.

"Two floors are nothing to figments of the imagination."

"I'm going to get my father," I said.

He grimaced in the moonlight. "Do as you like. I shall be well on my way by the time you wake him. But think carefully before you do. You wouldn't want to upset him, would you? Not when he's already grieving. A good daughter would never do such a thing."

He leapt out the window and I stifled a scream. I ran to the window sill and saw that he had tied a rope to one of the beams that stuck out from the roof. When he got to the ground he whistled softly and a white horse appeared from behind some shrubbery. He picked up the dark bundle he had thrown down, climbed on the horse, and then rode off swiftly through the fields.

It was a curious incident, the first thing that had taken my mind off my mother's death since that awful morning by the river. I decided not to wake my poor Papa, who needed his sleep so badly these days. I would tell him what had happened in the morning.

When I went down to breakfast the next day, I found Papa and Grandmère deep in conversation with a policeman at the foot of the stairs. For one sickening moment I thought that they had found Maman's body, but as I got closer I discovered that the problem was quite different.

"What exactly was stolen?" the policeman was asking.

"Two miniature portraits from the gallery and some of my late wife's clothes and toiletries," said my father.

"Including a very expensive set of combs and brushes," added Grandmère.

"No other valuables are missing?" asked the policemen.

"No," said Papa. "It was one of the parlor maids who discovered the smashed case in the portrait room."

The policeman wrote this down and said, "I'll need to interview the maid, of course, but my guess is that the burglar just took whatever he could get his hands on easily, probably taking advantage of the crowd here for the funeral. I'll leave a few men around, though, just in case he decides to come back."

"Thank you," said Papa wearily.

So my figment of the imagination was nothing but a common burglar! Papa would be very troubled to learn that I had spoken to a burglar, so I decided to say nothing about our encounter. It wasn't as if I could tell the policeman anything useful, since I hadn't even seen the man's face.

"Good morning, Lynette," said Grandmère, seeing me on the stairs. "I want to congratulate you on your good behavior yesterday. I know it must have been difficult for you to maintain your composure, but you were a credit to us all."

"I'm proud of you too," said Papa, hugging me. I wondered what they would say if they knew that I had punched Henri in the face.

When we sat down to breakfast, Grandmère said, "Raoul, don't you have something to tell the girl?"

"Of course," said Papa. "I suppose it's best to get these things over with quickly."

"What is it?" I asked uneasily.

"Yesterday my sister offered to let you stay with her for a few weeks in Paris."

"But I want to stay here with you!" I said.

"I'm not going to be here," said Papa. "I have business in Marseilles that I can't ignore any longer. Believe me, I'd much rather stay with you too, but I think a change of scenery will be good for us both."

"Then let me come with you," I said.

"I wouldn't be able to give you the attention you deserve. Your Aunt Isabelle will take good care of you," he assured me.

"I'll miss you," I said.

"As I will miss you," he replied. "We must write to each other everyday."

"I've never gotten real letters before," I said, trying to smile for him. He smiled back, for the first time in weeks.

My heart ached at the thought of leaving him, but I knew he was right. There may have been no such things as ghosts, but the château was haunted for my father and me, haunted by the memory of Maman. It would be good for us both to get away, so that we could come back and be a family again.

Besides, I would be with Henri and Claude. That was something. A prickle of excitement wormed its way through the cloud of sadness that hung over me like a veil. At last I would be going to Paris, the City of Light, the jewel of France, and the place where my mother had spent most of her girlhood.


	5. Daylight Dissolves into Darkness

**Note**: Erik is in this chapter twice, though not directly. Can you spot him? (Heh, kinda like those Where's Waldo? books, isn't it?)

**Chapter 5: Daylight Dissolves into Darkness**

My father was right about Aunt Isabelle taking good care of me in Paris. At first she brought me with her everywhere, even when she went calling on her fashionable friends, but she let me stay home when I told her that the crowded streets made me nervous because I always felt like someone was watching me. She had fitted up one of the guest rooms for me and filled it with as many toys and games as possible. I was never allowed to eat only one helping at meals and she constantly asked me if there was anything I wanted or needed.

In fact, she fussed a little too much for my taste, but at least she was better than my Uncle Alexis who never spoke to me at all. He spent all day at the salons or the races and all night…well I did not really know where he went at night, although I doubted it was anywhere pleasant since he always had terrible headaches in the morning.

"I'm sure your father would feel better if he didn't keep such odd hours," I said to my cousins one day when we were all shut away in the nursery. My aunt had told us that we must be very quiet for fear of making Uncle Alexis' headache worse.

"I worry for Papa's soul," said Claude. "He hardly ever goes to church."

"Claude wants to be a priest someday," Henri explained.

"Actually, a bishop," Claude corrected him.

"But then you won't ever get married," I said.

"I think wives and children are an awful lot of trouble," said Claude. "You have to pay for their food and clothes and all sorts of things. I wonder if your father will get a new wife while he's in Marseilles."

These last words, spoken so casually, filled me with a sudden dread and I quickly changed the subject by telling them about the break-in at the château. Henri was very sorry to learn that he had missed seeing a burglar, though Claude was quite relieved.

"I shouldn't like to meet a robber," he said.

"I did meet him actually," I admitted. "He came into my room. Only I didn't know he was a robber then."

"Really? What was he like?" asked Henri, obviously fascinated.

"Quite rude," I said. "But he was a splendid climber."

They made me tell the story of the burglar over and over until their friend Victoir came over for the day and then I had to tell it again for him. Apparently Victoir's family spent much of the year in Paris, which explained why I had never met him before Maman's funeral, though his father's estate lay not ten miles from the Château de Chagny.

"You're quite plucky not to have run away from a masked criminal," Victoir told me. "I say," he exclaimed. "Why don't we play at robbers right now?"

"Yes, let's," agreed Henri.

"I don't want to," I said, even though I did. I thought it might be wrong to play and have fun when my mother had been dead scarcely a month. It might even be a sin.

So they left me in the nursery and ran around the house pretending to be burglars, all concern for my uncle's headache forgotten. As I gazed out the window onto the cobblestone street, I told myself that Papa could not possibly get a new wife in Marseilles, since he would be far too busy with other matters. This thought did not comfort me much, however, and I couldn't help crying a little, though I made myself stop when Victoir slipped in to give me a book he had taken from the upstairs library. It was _The Three Musketeers _by Alexandre Dumas.

"It's one of my favorites. I thought it might cheer you up," he said.

"Thank you," I replied, taking the thick volume from his hand.

So it was in my cousins' cluttered nursery that I discovered the magic way books have of making one's sorrows feel not so big. For I did not read only _The Three Musketeers_, but also _The Count of Monte Cristo, The Hunchback of Notre Dame, _and best of all_ Les Misérables. _Victoir was eleven already, so I let myself be guided by his literary taste and he did not disappoint me with his choices. At first I struggled with some of the bigger words, but it got easier and easier the more I read.

I spent most of the next three weeks shut away with these wonderful tales of heartbreak and adventure and at the end of that time I did not feel as wretched as I had before. After all, what was losing a mother compared to the suffering of the falsely imprisoned Dantès, the hideously deformed Quasimodo, and the poor abandoned Fantine? I thought that if they could survive their hardships, then I could do the same with mine.

"How you do pour over those books!" Aunt Isabelle would laugh whenever she saw me sprawled across the couch with a novel in hand.

Finally I felt fit to join my cousins in their games with Victoir, who visited nearly every day. At this point they were rather sick of playing robbers all the time and had started to squabble about what to do next.

"I know!" I said. "Let us be the Three Musketeers."

"But there are four of us," Claude pointed out.

"There are four musketeers in the book, too," I said. "You must be Aramis, Claude, since you want to be a priest. And Victoir you should be Athos, as you are the eldest."

"And you shall be d'Artagnan because it was your idea," said Victoir.

I was very pleased when he said this for I secretly longed to be the brave d'Artagnan. "That means Henri can be Porthos," I finished.

"How do we begin?" asked Henri.

"We must have swords," I replied, so we trooped up to the attic and found old coal pokers that would serve as rapiers, just as the old drapes made splendid uniforms. We plotted our plan of attack against the evil Cardinal Richelieu and one glorious afternoon even convinced Aunt Isabelle to be the treacherous Lady de Winter, though she refused to let us draw the secret brand on her shoulder.

"I will die for you, Milady," I said in a deep voice, kneeling in front of her with my hand over my heart.

"Oh, you look so funny…in…that moustache!" gasped Aunt Isabelle in a fit of giggles, for Victoir had drawn facial hair on us all with a quill and some ink. "I shall break a stay, I swear I shall!"

"Maman, you're supposed to be a hardened criminal. You must stop laughing," said Claude seriously, but this only made her guffaw even louder.

All in all, I scarcely realized that I'd been gone a month when Papa and Grandmère sent me letters wishing me a happy birthday, along with far more presents than I needed or deserved. I had been so preoccupied with reading books and playing musketeers that I had forgotten I turned nine on May 25!

I grew dismal when I realized that this would be the first of many birthdays without Maman, but everyone did their best to distract me. Aunt Isabelle flurried around the house to get together a special supper for me, lighting gold candles and hanging white streamers from the ceiling. We ate all my favorite dishes, roast lamb and bouillabaisse and strawberries and cream puffs. Aunt Isabelle and Uncle Alexis gave me a pretty new frock and Henri, Claude, and Victoir had all pooled their pocket money to get me a secret gift.

"It was Claude that spotted it in the shop window," said Henri, hiding something behind his back. Then with a flourish he brought out a wide brimmed blue hat with a large white feather sticking out of it.

"Oh, it is just like the ones the musketeers wear!" I said delightedly. "Thank you, boys." Then we all shook hands and I let them each try on the hat in turn.

"I have something else for you," said Victoir, handing me a small package that I quickly unwrapped.

"_The Man in the Iron Mask_!" I said, gazing happily at the red leather cover. "Thank you so much, Victoir. I've been dying to know what happens to d'Artagnan and Queen Anne and all the rest."

"Here's another package for you that just came this evening," said Aunt Isabelle, as she brought out a large box.

It had no postmark or note or marking of any kind to indicate the sender. Inside I found a music box in the shape of a gold birdcage with a little nightingale perched in the middle. When I wound up the key, the nightingale began to sing a sad, yet lovely song I did not recognize. We all agreed that it was the finest music box we had ever seen.

"My brother must have had someone deliver it," said Aunt Isabelle, wiping the tears from her eyes when the song had finished.

Three days after my birthday I received an invitation to dine at the home of the Baron de Castelot-Barbezac. I felt quite grown up as I put on my best black dress to go visit Aunt Meg and her family. She welcomed me with open arms and when I hugged her I could feel the bulge in her stomach that meant her baby was growing fast. After we had finished eating, she said that her mother, Mme Giry, had asked to see me. I looked forward to finally talking to the woman I had heard so much about from Maman.

"You mustn't mind anything odd she says," warned Aunt Meg. "It's hard for her to have to stay cooped up in here all day, with her illness."

I nodded, thinking that I knew far too much about the difficulty of dealing with illnesses. I followed Aunt Meg upstairs into to a comfortable little room with cheerful pink wallpaper and plush carpets. On a cream colored divan lay a thin, gray-haired woman with traces of great beauty still in her face.

"Mother, I have brought Lynette de Chagny to see you," said Aunt Meg.

"Pleased to meet you," I said, curtsying. Then Aunt Meg had to leave us to go see some duchess or other who had just called downstairs.

"So you are Christine Daae's daughter?" Mme Giry said when we were alone.

"Christine de Chagny, yes," I corrected her.

"I haven't seen you since you were a baby. You look very much like your mother, but I suppose everyone tells you that don't they?"

"Yes," I said.

"I was very sorry I could not come to her funeral, but my health would not allow it," she said. "Did you get my flowers?"

"Yes, Papa told me to thank you for them."

"Your father is a very polite man," she said. "Do you love to sing as your mother did?"

"I like singing well enough, but I'm not nearly as good as she was," I replied

"That's to be expected," said Mme Giry. "She had the greatest musician in the world to coach her to greatness."

"I didn't know that," I said. "Who was he?"

"Did you never hear her speak of the Angel of Music?" asked Mme Giry.

I shook my head and Mme Giry lifted her eyebrows and said, "No doubt she had her reasons. Sometimes not speaking of a thing is the easiest way to forget, but other times…" She paused.

"What?" I said.

"Other times not speaking about something makes it even more painful, more terrible, until at last we can think of nothing else."

"What are you talking about Mme Giry?" I asked.

"Me? I'm talking about everything and nothing. Those are the only topics of conversation I can be bothered with at my age."

"I see," I said.

"No you don't," she said. "But you are very polite to say so, just like your father would. He never understood your mother, you know, though that didn't stop him from loving her."

"What do you mean, he never understood her?" I asked.

"I mean that your father is generally a sensible man, just as you seem to be a sensible girl. Your mother, one the other hand, was never sensible; no true artist is, I suppose. So of course your father couldn't understand all her strange fears and irrational beliefs."

"I don't think it's very nice of you to say things like that," I said.

"The truth isn't always _nice_," said Mme Giry. "Your mother found that out almost ten years ago in this very city."

"She didn't like Paris," I said, wanting to show that I knew just as much about Maman as this old woman did.

"Oh, it wasn't Paris she didn't like," grumbled Mme Giry. "It was what Paris reminded her of, that's what she wanted to avoid. But in the end she couldn't stay away, could she? She came back; even though any fool could tell that she'd been deathly ill and had no business being out of bed. "

"Did you see her when she visited Paris?" I asked, leaning forward in my seat. I still wondered about my mother's mysterious trip to Paris sometimes, the trip that had propelled her into her final sickness.

Mme Giry spoke thoughtfully, "Yes, I saw her. It made me feel quite old, to see how thin and frail she looked."

"Did she say why she came here?" I asked.

"No, she spoke very little. We recalled the old days at the opera house and then she said she had to leave."

"But didn't she spend the night here at Aunt Meg's?" I asked.

"No, she didn't stay here," said Mme Giry. "Is that what she told you?"

"She told us she checked into a hotel," I said, crossing my fingers, so that it wouldn't count as a false hood. For some reason, I did not want her to know that Maman had lied about her whereabouts in Paris.

After that I couldn't pay attention to anything else Mme Giry said and soon it was time for me to go.

"I hope Mother didn't bother you. She can be intimidating for an invalid," said Aunt Meg, as she led me to the carriage.

"I found her very interesting," I said truthfully.

I returned to my aunt and uncle's that night, still confused over what I had learned. Who was the Angel of Music? Where had Maman stayed on her visit to Paris? Why had she come here in the first place?

One of the servants had left a glass of hot chocolate in my room, as the night was quite chilly for the end of May. I sipped the drink and wrote a note to Papa, until my eyes began to grow heavy. I did not know why I was so tired all of a sudden, but I fell into bed before I could even undress. Then there came the sensation of someone carrying me a long way and when I opened my eyes I was not in any part of my aunt and uncle's house that I had ever seen before.

Instead I was in what appeared to be a dark cave, lit only by candles. I sat up on the cushion I found myself lying on and looked around, amazed at what I saw. I was on the shore of a body of water, but when I glanced up I saw stone instead of sky. Behind me was a large pipe organ, encrusted with gold.

And sitting in front of the organ, with a serene smile on her face, was my mother.

**So the plot thickens…please read and review.**


	6. Let the Dream Begin

**Thanks to everyone who has reviewed! Hope this chapter explains a lot.**

**Chapter 6:** **Let the Dream Begin**

"Maman?" I gasped. "Is it really you?"

"Yes, Lynette darling. It's me," said my mother, her smile broadening.

"Oh, Maman!" I cried, running into her arms. In that moment, the only thing that mattered was that I was hugging Maman, my own dear Maman, who seemed so happy and healthy again. She squeezed me tightly for several minutes and then let go, her eyes scanning my face.

"You're all right," she said. "I'm so glad you're all right, dearest. Come, let us sit and have a talk."

While she pulled out two stools for us, I asked curiously, "Where are we Maman?"

"Where do you think we are?" she said.

"Well, Papa said you went to heaven, but this place doesn't have any angels or clouds or pearly gates." A frightening thought occurred to me and I whispered "We're not in the other place are we Maman, you know, _hell_?"

"Do I look like I've been in hell?" asked Maman, laughing.

"No, you look very well," I admitted. "I suppose this is Purgatory then and you are waiting to get into heaven. Do you like it here?"

"It's surprisingly comfortable," said Maman.

"Do you like it better than home?" I asked anxiously.

I wanted her to say that of course she liked our lovely home better than this cave, but all she said was, "It's different."

"Claude thinks Papa is going to get a new wife," I said. I hoped that this news would somehow scare her into coming back with me and stopping Papa from ever remarrying.

Instead she said, "I hope he does find happiness with someone, eventually."

"You think it's a good idea?" I said incredulously.

"Your father has a loving heart and I'm sure he'll choose someone who'll make a good mother for you."

"I would never love her as much as I love you, Maman," I promised.

"I know, darling," she smiled. "Now tell me, did you have a happy birthday?"

I would have replied, but I was distracted by a prickling at the back of my neck. I whirled around in my seat, but there was no one there. I looked around until I spotted twin points of light blazing in the darkest recess of the cavern. Gradually, I realized that these lights were actually eyes and if I stared very hard, I could just make out a tall, dark figure standing perfectly still in the shadows. I grew suddenly nervous.

"Maman, who is that man in the corner?" I asked in a low voice. "Is he dead, as well?"

"Yes," she said, after a pause.

"Why doesn't he speak?" I asked.

"He thought you and I should have some time alone," said Maman. "Would you like me to introduce you?"

In truth, I wished to keep her all to myself, but I could see that she wanted me to meet this man for some reason, so I said, "Yes, please."

"Come out, Erik," called Maman.

As he emerged from the corner, the candlelight flickered over his black clothes and the white mask that concealed half his face. I thought he resembled nothing so much as a figure from a nightmare and I had to fight the impulse to run away shrieking in terror. _Be brave like d'Artagnan, _I told myself sternly.

"Lynette, I would like you to meet Erik," said Maman.

"Charmed," he said curtly, in a voice that was oddly familiar.

I curtsied without saying a word, trying hard not to stare at his mask. I did not want him to consider me rude, but I couldn't think of anything to say to this fearsome stranger.

It was my mother who broke the awkward silence, saying, "Oh Erik, won't you sing for her? I know she would like it very much."

"If it pleases you," he said and from the way he said it I could tell that he would do anything to please my mother. A knot of jealousy formed in my stomach and I decided I hated him.

But when he opened his mouth and began to sing, I could not hate him, not really, no matter how hard I tried. I had thought Maman's voice the most wonderful in the world, but hers was nothing compared to Erik's. The notes streamed out of his throat like a living thing that enveloped me in its soft arms. Almost against my will, my body sank to the floor, hypnotized by the heartbreaking beauty of his singing.

I saw Maman sitting on a cushion, her face rapt as she took in his every word. I remembered my father saying, "You've never looked at me the way you looked at him." I didn't know who Papa had been talking about, but it was certainly true that my mother had never looked at my father like he was her whole world, the way she did with this man, if he was a man. It struck me that for the very first time I was seeing Christine, not Maman.

It is an exceptional moment when you realize that your mother is a person, not just your mother. I felt very grown up and yet unsure of myself all at once.

Neither one of them seemed aware of my presence anymore. His glorious singing was just for her and I felt reduced to the role of bystander. The knot of jealousy squeezed tighter and I decided that I wanted to hurt Erik as badly as I could. I thought how easy it would be to pull off his mask, while he was so lost in my mother's eyes.

So I crept quietly toward him until I was close enough to rip off the thin sheet of porcelain that covered the right half of his face. Instantly, he jerked back and I gaped at the sight of the reddened, welted mass of flesh that now lay exposed. He quickly put a hand to his face to hide the deformity, but I had already seen it and I started to yell, scrambling away from him as fast as I could.

He did not seem surprised at my response and I thought I heard him mutter, "Like mother, like daughter." But I might have misheard his words since I was busy screaming my head off. Burying my face in my hands, I rocked back and forth on the floor of the cave, trying to forget the terrible sight of his raw, blistered face.

"Please stop, darling," said Maman, kneeling beside me. I did not understand how she could speak so calmly.

"But he's a monster Maman! You're trapped in Purgatory with a monster!" I cried.

"Don't say such things," said Maman, seizing me by the shoulders. "He is _not_ a monster."

"He's not?" I asked shakily.

"No, and I'm ashamed of you for behaving so badly. I thought I raised you better than to judge someone by their appearances."

"I'm sorry," I said.

"I'm not the one you need to apologize to," said Maman.

I stood up and turned to Erik, who had put his mask back on. "I'm sorry, sir," I said, hanging my head.

"I think I'd better go, Christine," came his icy reply.

"Yes, perhaps that would be best," said Maman wearily and he stormed angrily out of the cave.

"I'm sorry if I upset you, Maman. Don't be sad," I said.

"I don't blame you, darling. Everyone reacts like that. I know I did at first. It's just so hard for him," Maman said tearfully, more to herself than to me. "He can't help the way he looks and it hurts him to know that even a child can't see past his face. It's not such a bad face really, when you get used to it."

"You mean he doesn't wear the mask all the time?" I asked, horrified at the thought.

"No, he only wore it tonight because of your visit," she replied. Then, wiping her eyes, she said in a more cheerful voice, "Now, let's eat the special supper I made for you. We must enjoy our time together. I want to hear all about your doings in Paris."

So, sitting at a small table covered with a white tablecloth, I told her about playing Three Musketeers, writing letters to Papa, celebrating my birthday, and visiting Mme Giry. She listened attentively and asked me lots of questions, as we laughed and ate the food she'd prepared (Maman had apparently learned to cook in Purgatory). I wanted to ask her some questions of my own, but I was afraid of making her sad again. After dessert, she gave me some very bitter coffee and I drank it all just to please her. I wanted that meal to go on forever, only I started to feel curiously tired again.

I stifled a yawn, just as I was saying, "So now I'm reading _The Man in the Iron Mask_, which Victoir gave me as a birthday present."

"Who is Victoir?" Maman asked.

"He's a friend of Claude and Henri's," I said, yawning again. "He's my friend too, I suppose. He and I are generally the ones who come up with all the ideas for our games."

When I yawned for the third time, Maman took my hand and said, "I love you very, very much Lynette."

"I love you too," I said. They were the same words we had exchanged the night before she fell into the river. I began to feel frightened.

"You're not going to leave me again, are you Maman?" I asked, struggling to keep my eyes open.

"You can't stay here, darling," she said. "You have to go back."

"No," I started to say, but suddenly I slumped forward in my chair, my face almost falling into the remains of the chocolate mousse. The world was going dark, but I could still hear voices around me.

"You're certain it won't hurt her?" my mother was asking worriedly.

"It will just make her go to sleep," Erik assured her and then everything went black.

When I woke up in the guest bedroom the next morning, I thought that it was probably the most bizarre dream I had ever had. But it seemed so real. I couldn't help feeling that I actually _had_ eaten supper with my dead mother and met a strange man named Erik. I decided that if I didn't tell anyone about it, then I could go on pretending that it really had happened.

A week later it was time for me to go back to the château and Papa and Grandmère. Henri and Claude were to spend the summer with us again and Victoir would be just nine miles away. He promised to ride his horse everyday to see us and I knew that we would have splendid times. I decided to ask Papa to have a tree house built that could serve as musketeer headquarters.

After that my life entered a regular rhythm, with spring, summer, and fall in the country and winter in Paris. Sometimes it seemed as if this had always been my life, as if I had never had a mother, just a father, grandmother, aunt, uncle, cousins, and friends.

But other times, usually just before I fell asleep, memories of Maman would creep into my head and I would wonder how she and Erik were getting on in Purgatory and if she had gone to heaven yet and if I would ever dream about her again.

**Coming soon: The return of the burglar! As always, any reviews are welcome. :)**


	7. Promise Me You'll Try

**Note**: This chapter will be a little darker, since it's from the POV of Erik and not a nine year old girl. Oh, and when Erik talks about spending money, it's all the cash he saved from his salary over the years. (I'm assuming he didn't actually use all 20,000 francs each month. It's not like the guy had to pay rent or anything.)

**Chapter 7: Promise Me You'll Try**

I have hated many people in my life and loved only one.

But when I met that one, she promptly unleashed all the love, all the passion that I had never given or received in the first thirty seven years of my existence. For a mere existence it was; until I knew her I did not live. Yes, I think it is fair to say that I loved Christine Daae as much as any man has ever loved a woman. Perhaps some would say I loved her too much, but I could not help myself. I, who had always prided myself on the discipline and control with which I honed my mind and body, lost my head over a sixteen year old ballet dancer.

If she had been just a pretty girl with a pretty voice I would not have descended so easily into the madness. Indeed the opera house was teeming with alluring young things full of promise, but none of them affected me the way she did. No, what Christine possessed went far beyond good looks or talent. I have always believed that the true window to the soul lies not in the eyes, but in the voice, and Christine's voice, like her soul, was not of this earth.

She was so ethereal, so exquisite, that part of me could not blame her when she shrank from me. It was not just my abhorrent face that repelled her, but the intensity of my feelings. Perhaps if I had whispered pretty clichés into her ear or showered her with empty flattery the way _that boy_ did, perhaps then I would not have frightened her away. Perhaps then I would not have had to watch the two of them sail off into the mist, my ears bleeding at the sound of their vows of love.

I did not let her go without regret. During those hours after she left with the boy, I lay in silent agony, hiding in a small, secret cave I had prepared in case my lair was ever breached. As I listened to the mob tearing apart my home, I thought how simple it would be to go out there and let them tear me apart, as well. I wanted to die. I wanted to stay down there in the dark and waste away until I was nothing.

It was one event and one event alone that saved me from death that night and in the weeks that followed: _She had kissed me. _Though I wore no mask and my hideous face lay bare for her to see, Christine did not hesitate, did not shudder in revulsion as she pressed her lips to mine. In that single moment, she touched something I hadn't even known I possessed.

My soul.

So in a strange way I began to live again, though it was an odd life even for me. No longer did I have an entire company of opera performers to terrify and command. I had to fend for myself, creeping out at night to steal what I required. Over the next few months, I took the supplies necessary to rebuild my pipe organ, fortify my home, and generally live in the style to which I had grown accustomed.

I developed a renewed interest in the affairs of the opera house. The twin dullards, André and Firmin, could not afford to rebuild after the fire, nor did they have any desire to do so, but they still hoped to make back some of their losses by selling the valuable property to anyone who would take it. That I could not allow. I would kill them both before I saw my beloved theatre used for anything less sacred than the opera.

I could not give my orders directly, as I had before, of course. Any hint of my continued occupation of the subbasements would only lead to further invasions of my privacy, so I had to invent new methods of persuasion. In a way, I enjoyed the challenge of imposing my will by more subtle means.

Blackmail proved to be my most effective weapon. Most wealthy men have a few unsavory secrets in their past and I paid huge sums to discover the secrets of any prospective buyer of whom I did not approve. I employed a corrupt, but discreet lawyer, with whom I communicated solely by letter, to inform these men that should they continue to pursue ownership of the Opera Populaire, then certain unpleasant facts would be made public.

My tactics were generally successful and the managers despaired of ever selling the opera house. The place had gained a reputation thanks to my tenure as O.G. and my current activities discouraged anyone reckless enough to disregard that reputation. Still, André and Firmin continued to scour the continent for a new owner, bringing in greater and greater fools to try to close the deal. As my savings began to dwindle, I realized that I had to find a suitable buyer, one who possessed the essential traits of wealth, taste, and, above all, an appreciation for the beauty of French opera.

Such a man was M. Hamilton, an American millionaire with the good sense to abandon his homeland for Paris as soon as he inherited his fortune. I first heard of him when I was listening to one of André and Firmin's tedious, though occasionally useful, conversations. The only room the idiots had bothered to repair following the fire was their own office, which meant that I could eavesdrop with great ease from beneath the well-concealed trapdoor.

"That's another buyer who's backed out at the last minute, Firmin! One would almost think this place was cursed," said André.

I smiled to myself. The buyer had been an insipid count who was not anxious for his family to learn of his penchant for women's clothing.

"I rue the day M. Lefevre ever mentioned his miserable theatre to us," said Firmin.

"Did you know that Lefevre was back in town?" asked André.

"No, where did you hear that?" said Firmin.

"I met the rascal at a dinner party, actually," said André. "Terrible, the people one meets in good company these days. I was cornered by some horrid American named Hamilton who wanted to talk opera with me. He actually had the nerve to say that _Robert le Diable_ was an utter waste of time!"

Ah, here was a man after my own heart. I myself had always considered Meyerbeer to be sinfully overrated, his work cold, deliberate, and utterly devoid of passion. I liked this American already. He had to be rich if he was attending suppers with André and Lefevre. Further investigation assured me that Hamilton was the ideal candidate. But how could I convince him to buy the opera house?

The solution came to me one night while I was busy playing Chopin. _The best way to petition a music lover is with music. _I would write him a particularly astounding composition and then promise him more if he became owner of the Opera Populaire. It was not a foolproof plan, but I had enough faith in my own genius to feel tolerably certain of success. Rich men will go to a great deal of trouble to indulge in their favorite pursuits. The number of brothels in Paris was proof of that.

So I went to work composing a piano sonata for Hamilton. I barely slept or ate for ten days, but in the end I was satisfied with the result. I sent the finished piece, along with three hundred francs and certain instructions, to the pianist I knew Hamilton had hired to play at a luncheon he was hosting the following week. If all went as I intended, Hamilton would hear the sonata, read my note, and begin negotiations with André and Firmin.

The note was a rather astute piece of work in my opinion. It read as follows:

_My Dear M. Hamilton,_

_Sir, you do not know me, but I have had the good fortune to hear of you. I am uncertain as to whether or not you are aware of the unfortunate circumstances that led to the lengthy closure of the famous Opera Populaire, but suffice it to say that the building has been up for sale for nine years and an appropriate purchaser must be found soon. _

_As former chief repetiteur of the opera house, I have a lingering interest in the fate of the theatre and I could not rest easily if I knew that I had failed to urge a true aficionado such as yourself to consider buying the place. I am taking the liberty to ask for your consideration only because I firmly believe that you have both the means and the inclination to acquire ownership._

_As a token of my esteem I have sent along a bit of music I wrote in hopes of moving you to act. I would be happy to compose more should you come into possession of the opera house. Please sir, from one music lover to another, I beg you to reflect on my proposal._

_Yours Respectfully,_

_M. Reyer_

Since I happened to have heard from my managers that Reyer lay dying in a convalescent home in Switzerland, I knew that he could not interfere, and I hoped that my sonata would sufficiently impress Hamilton into ignoring any peculiarity in the application. I had appealed to his vanity, his largesse, and his fondness for music, now all I could do now was wait.

The day of the luncheon came and went and yet I heard nothing. I began to grow impatient. I even resorted to pounding out my own requiem on the organ, as I invariably did when I was in a black mood. I cursed the fact that I could not simply ask if M. Hamilton had expressed an interest in buying the opera house instead of being forced to skulk in the shadows picking up scraps of conversation like I really was a damned ghost. At last I heard news one day as I lay hidden beneath the manager's office.

"I say, André, do you think this Hamilton fellow is serious?" asked Firmin.

"As a matter of fact I do," replied André. "But can we accept his offer? There's bound to be a public outcry when it's discovered that the Opera Populaire has been sold to an American."

"Hang the public. They're not the ones paying the property taxes on this infernal place!" said Firmin.

There really is nothing like the feeling of a well-executed plot. I had to hold back the triumphant laugh that threatened to burst forth at any moment. Of course my plan had worked. How had I ever doubted it? I should never have underestimated the brilliance of my music.

The months of construction that followed were terribly disruptive, but I looked at them as a necessary evil, a mere bump on the Opera Populaire's road to restored glory. I sealed off every entrance to my home, save the one in the little chapel that I was certain no one could discover. At one point the incessant noise got to be so bad that I smashed a few ladders and tools in frustration, but for the most part I tried to control my temper. I spent the majority of my time below ground doing what I do best: composing and brooding.

For of course, as all this was going on, I had not forgotten about Christine. She was like oxygen to me, not necessarily something I thought about consciously, but a constant presence nevertheless, surrounding me and giving me life.

When I was in a particularly masochistic mood, I would sit at my organ and play the _The Music of the Night_, the song I had written just for her. I would recall the warm feeling of her in my arms, the distinct scent of her hair and skin, and the joy that filled her face as she let my voice entrance her with its beauty. All that was over now. I would never see her again. I am not ashamed to admit that I wept while singing and remembering our time together. It became a kind of test. Did the memory of her still have the power to reduce me to tears?

The answer was always yes and I took a perverse sort of pleasure in the suffering I inflicted on myself. It was rather like the brief phase I had gone through as boy when I used to take a knife and see how far I could plunge the blade into my flesh before I couldn't stand the pain. Those sessions with the knife had always left me aching and sore, much as my thoughts of Christine did now.

Still, I could not help but wonder how she fared in her new life. A year after she left, I learned that she had given birth to a girl and I felt an instant hatred toward this child that represented Christine's connection to _that boy._ Sometimes I tortured myself by picturing the three of them, sitting happily together, the boy's arm around her waist, the child on her knee. These visions always sent great waves of fury through me and led me to concoct elaborate plans for revenge that I knew I would never carry out.

I imagined slipping into their home and strangling the boy while he slept, so I could carry her off at my leisure. Or else I plotted to kidnap the child and ask for Christine's hand as ransom. Other times I thought I would waylay them when they were out for a drive in their carriage. I could easily shoot the boy and the driver and then ride off with Christine and her daughter. Oh yes, I had a hundred schemes to take her back, but in the end she came on her own.

It was a bitterly cold night toward the end of February. There was no performance that evening, so the opera house lay quiet and still. I sat at my organ, not really playing anything, just staring at the keys and contemplating the past. That's when I heard her singing, "_Think of me, think of me fondly, when we've said goodbye. Remember me, once in a while; please promise me you'll try". _I closed my eyes and enjoyed the sweet bliss of her voice that could move me so, even when it was just in my head.

For that could not really be her singing. It was a ruse, a trick my own mind played just to spite me. Yet, for some reason, I felt myself drawn out of my home and up to the little chapel where I first came to her as the Angel of Music. How long ago that all seemed now.

My mind was not yet done playing tricks on me. As I walked down the hidden passageway, I thought I saw a glimmer of light in the chapel, just as there had always been when she waited for her Angel to visit her.

I put my eye to the spyhole that allowed me to see, but not be seen. On the small altar sat a silver tinder box next to a white candle. That was real enough. But if the candle was real then who…

_Christine._

In the dim candlelight I could see that she looked terribly pale and sickly. The shadows under her eyes, the gauntness of her cheeks, the way the gown hung loosely on her too-thin frame, all spoke of some ravaging illness. _What has that boy been doing to her?_ I wondered. _I'll kill him if he had a hand in this. _But even as the anger coursed through my veins, I knew that her condition was not due to any mistreatment or neglect on his part. As much as I despised him, I knew the boy would never intentionally hurt her. It was rather unpleasant to realize that I had something in common with the Vicomte de Chagny.

But I was not wasting my thoughts on him, as I stood in the passageway and watched the shadows flicker across her haggard face. I could think of nothing but the impossible and glorious truth that lay before my eyes. _She had returned to me._

"_Christine, I love you_," I sang softly.

**Thanks to all who have reviewed! Please let me know if having an Erik chapter works with the story. I'm planning on having a Christine chapter next before going back to Lynette.**


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